… as in weedy grown-up. But I’m lichen it! More soon.
Category Archives: 0506
Astronaut AB drops by V-Gate (also known as Valgate) to say hello to a fellow “Rimmie” she remotely spotted sitting on an oppositely colored couch. We’ll catch up with her continuing story soon. For now we know she still desires to be the first person on Mars, man or wo-man. Good for her! But she needs to know about the dangers posed by the Boos there, black and white. She needs to understand *opposites* better, shadows. But she’s on her way; I’m not too worried about the sharp young gal.
That picture on the screen behind her reminds me we should get back to Supergal Ruby and her interactions with Greg Ogden with that extra G in his last name. Probably in Paper-Soap I would think. We must return.
And I forgot Astronaut AB was there too before checking, in disguise as grieving Jenny Powers whose husband just died, the vet of town every other week or so, the weeks that she’s not. Now it’s a full time job thanks to her loss.
He came in on a fast train bound from some place called Boner, North Carolina. Or so he thought.
Because: Boos again.
He recognized her immediately upon entering his pizza parlor, despite the black and white checkerboard makeup. Wheeler. She, of course, knew him as well. Knew he was *dead*: killed by a monster way back in VHC City in the olden days, before the coming of Mud and the parallel need for Soap. He took off his crown. He dared to sit down, confront her.
“H-how?” she uttered about his resurrection. I mean, she’d seen enough of them in the meanwhile but still — a bit of shock. He was stone cold dead laying on the floor when she found him. Heart attack. Couldn’t reach the pills in time. Surprise crocogator appearance through a thought-of solid wall did him in. They’d walked through the Fate Gate together, even, she escorting him to the afterlife. This is what he told her; she wasn’t physically there at the time; left when she found the body; alerted the authorities; cried her eyes out way into the night, The Musician, her other boyfriend at the time, seething on the other side of the bed, green with jealousy. She loved *him* more than *me*, he thought, although she was still with him, didn’t run wee wee wee all the way back to Collagesity like a broken piggie, even though she had supreme power there and not in VHC City. And now — The Musician was long back in the rear mirror, yielding to Axis and Opp both, take your pick. And now her new husband, she as Wendy Wilson Wheeler that is. Not really Wheeler any longer. All the old avatars had packed it up and moved to the White Palace, as Hucka Doobie liked to put it. But really: storage. Old yields to new. Continually.
“Jeffrey — Phillips?” Old Man Allen Martin, the resurrected one, didn’t like the sound of it. Then again, he wouldn’t like the sound of any of Wheeler’s lovers past himself. “How many down the road from me (and The Musician)?”
“4 — something like that. It’s complicated.”
“I bet it is.” He blew out air. “Well, yeah, I *died*. But then Soap cleaned me up, wiped away all the grime of a dirty grave. Plenty of Suds and Bubbles did the trick.”
“They *are* uplifting,” opined Wheeler, having caught the vaunted dancing troupe’s act in Collagesity 02 not long ago, Peter Ladd on his soapbox between them. The contrast of talent almost balanced out to mediocre but not quite. Skippy Bittman.
Gotta keep my eyes peeled like a banana, thinks Officer Spotty John, back on the beat. Crime everywhere in this town these days. Why it’s becoming as bad as, say, that Collagesity down in Lower Austra I’ve been reading about in the local toilet. Nautilus (continent) is being overrun by animals!
Officer Davis Jefferson was asking the local hookers in a nearby alley if they’d seen any illegal activities lately while working their own beat. “Nothing,” came the answer from Shelley Poplolly, a member of the City Gang and thus friendly with the police. “Something,” deviated Nancy Pantsy further down the wall, a Country Girl and thus not obliging to the local law. She was being paid by the Black Lake Bunch to get them off their tail.
“Weeeellll?” exuded Davis, tapping his foot in anticipation.
“Ketchup,” she said.
“Ketchup stains… all over the body. Then mustard came along and squirted him real good too. He was a true hot dog then and fit to be roasted, er, roosted, in that a pigeon came down and then roosted on his buns. He was done.”
“What’s alllll this with pig-e-ons, for crimeny’s sake?” Officer Davis Jefferson, formerly a busty barmaid of the Irish Resistance Movement out on loan for the moment, scratched his head with this. “So we’re looking for two squirts…”
“Squirters,” corrected Nancy Pantsy quickly, not wanting him to get too close to the truth.
“I’m going to call them squirts because that’s what they appear to be. You are how you act. Am I right. Ammm I riiiiiight?”
“Yes Officer Davis Jefferson,” dutifully recites Shelley Poplolly, a Loyalist.
“Yeah, what-ever,” recites Nancy Pantsy, a Dissentist, but then realizes her slip-up as he glares. “I mean, yes Officer Davis Jefferson.”
“Thatttt’s betterrr. Now: tell me more about this… doggg.”
(to be continued?)
The path through the gap between the two mountains was so inviting on the ground. Dream Tessa was sooo tempted.
But the air held a different slant. Red bridge. Warning, do not cross! DANGER.
Tessa woke up in the treehouse, determined to fix one of those two old, docked junk ships down at Fryburg. She must resist till then!
But she ended up spending most of the day watching a man working in a small office on the other side of the burg, across the forbidden bridge. What could he be up to? He never paid her any attention. Red as a rose he was. Death itself, some would say.
I kept waiting for ghosts to appear but only the tops of one or two came into view while I had the patience, along with a mostly present bat. I knew a full investigation of *Bellisseria* could save me, but I couldn’t call it that. Not in this here blog and accompanying photo-novel, or visa versa actually, because the photo-novel is the dog that wags the tail now. Not like in olden days with the books. Something changed about 5 years ago — almost exactly 5 years ago in fact. A beat increased in frequency enough to become a note. And here we are. At the end. Except it isn’t. Back to investigating…
Later they all ate sushi with oversized toothpicks at Black Diamond’s. Big Wanda with “deflated horns”, as I’ve called her floppy pigtails, was in charge, Spore’s plan in action. Master judo samurai Black Diamond (background) gave Little Oakley Annie the honorable name Green River during a pre-meal tea ceremony and her mama the name Kummer, which was short (he explained) for, “coming mother”. Or so that’s what they thought he meant. We were working with places in Washington again, switched from Illinois switched from Mississippi. Faulkner had no hold here, the Rule of the 100 and the way of fame and fortune conveniently forgotten. Zzz was not about Faulkner, nope. This was the mother, this was the father, but not the son, the fruity one.
Big Wanda spoke. “Little Annie Oakley, *sorry*, Green River, has fallen asleep again, cutting zzz’s instead of being in the moment. Too much fighting in life will do that, drain you of the oh-so-precious life force because you have done so with others.” She turns. “But you’re holding up well, Old Grey. How’s that floating device going?”
“Pretty good,” Old Grey admitted, knowing indeed what is holding her up and propelling her forward. Snowmanster and she will be at the tree again soon. In fact: they’re there.
“Interesting,” Core-Alena says to begin in his-her feminine/masculine voice and staring toward Old Grey’s way.
After publishing for real, I add categories (essentially: locations) and tags (essentially: characters) as needed. I’ll just do it again in this new post (“new again!”) to illustrate. Then if the reader desires, they can check back and look at the history of a particular location, a particular character. Here’s what we have for Andy Warhole, for example:
From this you can see that the last post he was in before “new!”, published a couple of weeks ago and called “customers”, also contained the same characters: Hilter, Marilyn, add in Gabby Truth this time. So let’s just, for fun, check Gabby’s past posts:
Ahh, you see? He also has a history with these particular characters, stretching back to photo-novel 14 and his time in Toppsity on the Maebaleia/Satori continent while living there with his brother Amos, who was, let’s see, about a month and a 1/2 back, declared dead due to repeated self ignitions, 7 to be specific as I’m checking.
A sad tale. Gabby still lives in Cassandra City
to the south of Toppsity
and last time I checked (“customers” again) was working in my Moe’s tavern there as a soothsayer, using tarot cards, 8 ball, and roshambo together to create the most effective vortex of timely prognostications. He told Hilter recently that he was already chancellor of Germany even though it was only 1919, another time and space and collage confusion. He dispensed timely if watered down wisdom to Andy Warhole about his art career and the impending doom he sees. Casey One Hole, one a-hole of a guy. We should get back to him.
And what of Gabby and Amos’ seldom seen brother Keith B., hmm?
So much to keep up with these days.
(to be continued)
“Why do you keep mocking me, Aloha?”
“Because I’m *you*. If you don’t straighten up.”
“Why should I?”
“You’ll keep — flipping back and forth, not understanding between one and the other. You won’t understand why you hate blacks in one life and whites in the next. I’m 18 incarnations up. We don’t actually live on Earth any longer. Instead: Virtual Reality. We’ve learned to transport from one to the other. A deadly virus finally did us in. The ones that could — they came here. In the future that is.”
Charlie Banana took another drag off his cigarette, blew smoke rings in the air. Then: “I’m suppose to believe this, huh?”
“It *will* happen. If we don’t straighten up *now*.”
“Hmph.” Charlie is tempted to peel another banana but resists the urge. He senses — fruits get in the way.